


i'm the reason

by loveyouallwrong (drunktuesdays)



Category: Bandom, The Cab
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/pseuds/loveyouallwrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cash and Johnson get locked in a closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm the reason

"I hate you," Greta says, kicking him right in the shin.

"Liar." Who could hate Cash? Assholes, probably. Or like, people who organized their sock drawer by color. Cash doesn't think he'd get along real well with those kinds of people. Fortunately, Greta is neither an asshole, nor a crazy neatfreak, so he sees no real reason to leave the floor of her bus anytime soon.

"I was going to sleep all the way through Wisconsin," she says again, for seriously like the fifteen thousand time, and shakes the whipped cream out of her hair, right into his face.

"Hakuna matata, baby," he tells her, and gets another kick to the shin for his troubles.

"Watch out, Cash Colligan," Greta says, pissed off enough that her cheeks are colored bright red. "I'll get you back for this. Seriously, watch."

He ain't afraid of a girl.

 

The thing is though, Cash is kind of an idiot, because Greta isn't a girl. She's a sociopath. Or a witch. Maybe a crazy demon things where you think they're pretty and smell delicious and then they have no fucking soul whatsoever. That sounds like Greta.

"Greta," Johnson yells, banging on the door. "Greta, come back!" He kicks the door with one of his cons, and then curses and hops towards Cash's general direction. "I'm gonna fucking kill you, asswipe."

"If it helps, I don't think she knew you were in here too," Cash tells him.

"How does that help? That fucking does not help at all. Brooks will notice we're not in the van eventually though, right?"

Cash shrugs, even though he knows Johnson can't see him in the dark of the closet-slash-sorry-excuse-for-a-dressing-room. "I've been on the Hushie bus for like a week. You were with Jack and his boys last night, weren't you? Plus, I don't know why you're expecting any kind of competency from Brooks."

"Fuck," Johnson says, and slumps against the door. "Fucking Greta."

"Fucking Greta," Cash agrees, and slumps to the ground next to him. "I gotta get her back now. Yo, you think if we..."

"_We_ are not doing jack-shit," Johnson says. "You must be out of your mind if you think I'm in any way becoming a target for Greta's rage."

Cash folds his arms and scowls. Fuck Johnson. See if he has Johnson's back next time he needs someone. Fuck, see if he _talks_ to Johnson, like, the entire time they are stuck in this skeezy-ass room.

That lasts about three minutes, tops, before Cash gets bored of contemplating ways to hugely embarrass Johnson on stage, and has to ask, "Did you hook up with that chick last night?"

"What?" Johnson asks, even though Cash knows Johnson hears him perfectly.

"Dude, come on. She was smoking, just fucking tell me you totally tapped that."

"Go jerk off," Johnson says, shoving at his shoulder.

Cash starts laughing and immediately grabs at his belt. "I totally fucking will, start talking."

"I _hate_ you," Johnson says, but he totally doesn't, because as already established, no one worthwhile can really hate Cash. Cash is fucking _great._

"I bet you did, you fuck. You were holding the keys to the van, weren't you? Did you give her the grand tour?" He injects a leer into every word, his thumbs still rubbing the clasp of his belt.

"Eat shit and die," Johnson says, but not in the tone of voice where Cash has to actually stop messing with him or get punched.

"You totally did," Cash says instead. "Did you ask her if she wanted to see your drums? That shit never fucking works for me, no one ever wants to see a fucking bass."

"Maybe the problem is that no one ever wants to see your dick," Johnson snaps.

Cash scoffs at the idea. What bullshit. He has a fine dick. He tells Johnson so. "It's majestic, you know? Like if my dick was a person, it'd probably be Pierce fucking Brosnan."

"Somewhere Pierce Brosnan just started blowing chunks, and has no idea why," Johnson says, gagging between words.

Someday his band will learn to appreciate him like he deserves. For real. "Did you bone that chick on my stuff?" he asks suddenly, remembering the previous topic of conversation.

"I shot off right on your bag," is the answer and Cash punches him right in the shoulder. "Ow motherfucker, no I did not do her on your shit," he says, making a huge deal of rubbing his shoulder.

"But you totally tapped that," Cash says with satisfaction. He likes when his boys get laid. Sex is the gold fucking standard of things you can do on tour, and he is well acquainted with how agreeable everyone is when they're sex-happy. One time Singer was in a dry spell for like six months, or some shit, and he really almost killed that dude with his bare hands.

He feels rather than sees Johnson shrug next to him. "Second base."

"Sweet." Cash says. "She was hot."

"Yeah."

They sit in companionable silence for a minute, and then Cash says, "You know, I think my best sexual experience was in the back of that van."

"You and Pete Wentz," Johnson says, leaning his head against the wall.

"No kidding." It's still totally weird to him that they know Pete fucking Wentz enough to be riding around in his old van, considering it was like, what, three years ago, that he and Alex were in his bedroom, making up dreams?

"Who was it?" Johnson interrupts the memory to ask.

"Shelly Thompson in Cali," he says. "Remember, during the Cobra tour? She was one of Vicky-T's friends."

"Not really."

"Gorgeous," Cash reflects. "Unbelievable legs." He sneaks a look at Johnson out of the corner of his eye. "I ate her out."

Johnson, as always, looks supremely unimpressed. Fucker. "Had you never done that before?"

"Fuck off, I love eating at the Y." Johnson groans. Cash just snickers and keeps going "She just made these noises."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Cash says, remembering. And fuck, Pierce is getting interested. He shifts on the floor, and thinks about the way her thighs had clamped around his head. How she looked spread out on the van's backseat, fingers twisted in his hair, forcing him deeper and deeper. He pops a boner every time he thinks about it. Right now is absolutely no exception. Fuck.

"I remember my favorite time," Johnson said into the silence. Cash presses the heel of his hand against the seam of his jeans, and makes an encouraging noise. "It was back home, in Vegas. Remember that chick, Molly? I dated her for a minute?"

Cash nods, and then belatedly remembers Johnson can't see him. "Yeah," he said. "I hit on her a few times."

"Asshole," Johnson knocks into his shoulder. "One weekend, her parents went away, and we totally did it on the kitchen table. You think that shit is not going to be awesome, because it's super cliched and shit right? Wrong."

"Just as good?" Cash asks, easing his zipper down as quietly as he can.

"Just as good," he confirms. "I never was so--are you jerking off?"

"No," Cash says, his hand firmly squeezing his dick.

"You're a fucking liar," Johnson makes a move to scramble sideways, and Cash reaches out blindly with his other hand to grab Johnson's arm.

"Chill, chill, no seriously--chill! I'm not going to jizz on you or some shit." Johnson stops trying to break for wherever the hell he thought he was going to run to, and gingerly sits back down. Cash takes that as permission to resume his activities, and licks the palm of his hand, and curls it back around his dick. Exhaling quietly, he says, "I wonder if Molly or Shelly put us in their top five."

"I'm in everyone's top five, motherfucker," Johnson says, and Cash listens to the strain in his voice as he thumbs the slit. "In fact, I'm probably number one."

"You're definitely mine, Alexander Johnson," Cash says laughing, and then groans when Johnson digs his elbow into Cash's ribs. "Tell me about another one of your conquests."

"You just want to get off on it," Johnson says, but he shifts and unfolds his leg to brush against Cash, and hello, Cash is rock hard now, as inexplicably as when he used to get boners in Science class when he was still growing arm hair.

"Fine," Cash says, pressing his thigh closer. "I'll talk." He can practically hear Johnson rolling his eyes, but he gives exactly no shits about that. "I fucked Greta once."

"No you absolutely didn't."

"I did. Fuck yeah I did." He didn't, actually. Greta would probably eat him for dinner, but Johnson's shifting on the floor, and he _really_ wants to get off. He's pretty okay with lying. "At the beginning of this tour, dude. I think the first or second hotel night." He fucks up into his own fist, squeezing when he gets to the base, and then sliding back up again. "She was--we were both pretty bored." He can hear the sound the zipper makes when Johnson eases it down, and fuck, it feels like a _victory_, even though he already has his own dick in his hand, what the fuck. "I almost came when she took off her shirt."

Johnson huffs out what could pass for a laugh, and says, "Could have guessed you'd be a fast draw."

"Fuck you," Cash says, and then, "She didn't let me." He is blatantly making this shit up, and has no idea why he isn't just telling something straight up, but he's gripped suddenly with the idea of Greta telling him _no, not yet_ with that evil demon look on her face.

Johnson must like it too, because there's a sharp inhale, and then the sound of skin on skin, Johnson's arm a shadowy blur as it moves.

Cash keeps talking.

"God, she was gorgeous with that fucking hair everywhere, and just laughing because she wouldn't touch my dick."

"Who would," Johnson grunts.

"_You_ would," Cash retorts, and before Johnson can respond, he says, "She let me touch her though." He can picture it in his mind, Greta with her pink, pink nipples, and honey colored hair between her legs, crouched over him. He can picture himself frustratedly thrusting up, and getting nothing but a smack for his efforts.

He thinks about this, and Johnson thinking about it too, and fuck, he comes. He comes over his fist with a long moan and a clenching in his stomach that lingers. Abandoning all pretense of of space, he twists on his side to pant into Johnson's ear. "Fuck, come on, let me see." Johnson turns his head, and they're not quite kissing, more breathing in each other's space, when Johnson comes with a moan and a shudder over his own hand.

"What the _fuck_," Marshall's voice says in horror, and Cash squints in the light at the rest of his band in the doorway.

"Dude," Singer says, shaking his head at them. "_Dude_."

Johnson scowls, and shoves Cash off him, tucking himself back into his pants. "I'm gonna fucking kill Greta," he promises, following them out. "You don't even _know_."

Cash gets to his feet, and zips up his pants, grinning broadly. "Guys," he calls after his band, who are making the effort to leave without him. "It's only gay if you cross _swords_."

Johnson flips him off, and Ian actually starts the van before he reaches it and Cash is not actually a glutton for punishment. Instead he detours to the Hush Bus, and throws himself into Bob Morris's lap. "Bob, you should get a keyboardist. The one you have is defective."

"I told you she would destroy you," Bob says, and shoves him off. "No one listens to my dire warnings."

"It's cause you're ginger," Cash says, and challenges him to MarioKart.

After two or or three rounds of Cash losing, the bus pulls to a stop and he looks outside to see a rest stop. "Get me Cheetos," Bob says, and Cash rolls to his feet, only to get slapped on the back of the head.

"Ow," he howls, and Greta hits him again. She holds up her phone to show a text message from Johnson reading, "$ SAYS HE BANGED U"

"I wouldn't fuck you with Bob's dick," she says, and smacks him again as she passes.

"Will you fuck Bob with your own dick?" Bob says intrigued, and Cash totally runs because there are some things you want to know about and there are some things that will totally ruin your badass fantasies about your friends.

He finds the van parked by the gas pumps, and dives into the backseat, stretching out his feet into Johnson's lap.

"I hate you," Johnson says, but he totally doesn't, because he rubs his thumb against the patch of skin between Cash's sock and his pant leg, and besides, as already stated, no one hates Cash.

He grins big at Johnson's dumb face and folds an arm behind his head and closes his eyes, lets himself be lulled to sleep when the van takes off again.

"Wanna draw on his face?" he hears Singer say to Johnson, right before he drops off.

"Nah," Johnson says. "He's pretty when he's not talking."

Cash probably has an awesome comeback for that right at the top of his tongue, ready to wow everyone with his incredible wit, but Johnson's hand is warm against his ankle, and he kind of doesn't want him to move it and it can wait, just a bit.


End file.
